The Robin and the Spiritual Life

Helen Syski learns from the humble robin that there is something heroic in living fully in your littleness.

The predator stalks his prey with a stillness that is so exacting it steals my breath. Inside everything goes silent except for the vibrations of the prey. The stealthy step, the coiled spring, the senses honed in for the kill. The lunge! The stunning accuracy. The meal.

This age-old story is one reverenced for the taking and sustaining of life, for the skill and power of the predator. It leaves one in awe of the magnificence and rawness of the circle of life.

Unless it is a robin. A robin?! My laughter bubbles over; the incongruity of a sweet, harmless robin redbreast playing the part of revered predator is hysterical! All that skill, ferocity, focus … for a worm!

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But to the robin, this is no comedy. This is life or death. This is everything.

In the spiritual life, I am the robin. Little, harmless to the devil’s plans, so much effort just to bag a worm. So common that even someone with no knowledge of birds knows its name, red breast, and the color of its eggs.

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Each worm, a moment where the heart is turned to God and grace finds its way in. Each worm, a spiritual nugget feeding the soul. Each worm, an act of virtue building up God’s kingdom as a grain of sand raises the height of a mountain.

But gosh, those worms are wily! To be able to stalk and jab with success! To take every moment as an opportunity for being with God! The worms always seem to burrow deeper and take a turn just when I try to grab them.

My fear blocking grace, despite my desire to trust. My mouth speaking even as my mind determines I should be silent. The hunt for Life continues, each failure ensuring a greater hunger for God.

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Reading about the canonized saints is like reading about the raptors of the spiritual life. If a robin attempted to stoop at 250mph to capture a pigeon like the Peregrine Falcon, she would kill herself. If she tried to hunt hawks like the Great Horned Owl, she would be become the eaten.

Similarly, if I were to attempt the spiritual regimes of the saints, I would perish. I am not an eagle, I am a robin. The robin cannot hunt fish in the lakes like the Bald Eagle; I cannot go into the missions or pray twenty decades of the Rosary daily or fast on the Eucharist alone.

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The robin, like the eagle, must lay it all down for life to continue, for her brood to live to their first flight and beyond. #catholicmom

What the robin and I can imitate is their focus, their accuracy, their full use of their God-given potential. I can be inspired to keep up a persistent, tireless fight for Life. For the robin, like the eagle, must lay it all down for life to continue, for her brood to live to their first flight and beyond. To thrive, the robin must accept she is a robin and live fully as a robin.

Does the robin ever glory in watching a hawk circling in the sky? Does she ever yearn to be like him? Probably not. She is hiding from the sweeping, ominous shadow of his wings. For the robin is humble. She builds her nest, hunts her worms, and raises her young. And those worms! The effort, the skill, and the glory of the hunt is hers after all. And it is not to be laughed at.

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